


The Adventure of the Wild Turkey

by Chiennoir



Series: The Adventures of Hamhock Holmes [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Humor, Mystery, Parody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 16:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14980586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiennoir/pseuds/Chiennoir
Summary: From the continuing adventures of Sherman "Hamhock" Holmes and his buddy Billy Joe-Bob "Bubba" Watson, who live in a trailer park in Alabama. This shameless, classless, tasteless parody, inspired by "The Blue Carbuncle," is dedicated to Big Brother John Bennett Shaw, who always said it was better to believe in Holmes than in Nixon.





	1. Chapter 1

I'd decided to drop in on my ol' buddy Sherman "Hamhock" Holmes, on the second day of deer season, to say hello and ask if he wanted to go out with me to the woods. He lived alone at Space 221b in the Baker Street Bayou Trailer Park and Laundromat, and liked it when we'd head out into the north forty together. He was sittin', half awake, in his old brown LazyBoy recliner. A half-empty punch of Redman was tucked neatly into the toe end of an old ostrich skin Tony Lama. A crumpled pile of past-due bills, evidently used to clean his Remington, was affixed with a Buck knife to the coffee table.

He had clearly been in a cogitatin' mood, because I noticed that the barrel of the Remington was still warm, and the letters "G.W." (for "George Wallace") had been spelled into the paneling with bird shot.

On the far end of the table was an old orange ball cap, just broke in good, with part of the black sizing strap missing, and the words "I just do what Mama says" embroidered in bold black letters across the front. Holmes's reading specs and a ratty oven mitt shaped like a Georgia bulldog were pushed up against it, meaning that there was something more going on here than fancy words and snappy dressing.

"What you been up to, Chief?" I asked. "You want me to run out and pick us up some baloney and beer?"

"That you, Bubba? Come on in here. I got some cold ones in the fridge. Grab us a couple and tell me what you think of this. It ain't much," he nodded in the general direction of the Mama cap, "but it sure beats a sharp stick in the eye."

I took a slug of my beer, and sat myself down on the faded Naugahyde settee. It was cold, the first real freeze of the season, and I sat on my hands to keep 'em warm. "Well, I reckon, that even though it's a mighty-fine cap, it's got some weird-ass story just waiting' to be told. You don't pull out the glasses and the bulldog mitt unless there's some kinda big-deal mystery that needs to be looked at with both eyes and one good hand."

"Nope. No crime at all that I can see," said Holmes, stuffing an extra-large wad of Redman way back into his cheek, like he usually did when he was in a particularly snippy mood. "There's a whole pile of cap-wearing hunters and truck drivers in this county. The second full day of deer season is crazier'n Uncle Frank with a Victoria's Secret catalog, and there ain't no telling what's fixin' to happen. Lots of strange things that ain't exactly Christian, but not exactly criminal either. I suppose somethin' like that is what we got here, Bubba."

"Hell, Holmes," I told him, "seems to me that about half of that last batch I wrote up for the  _Weekly Dogwhacker_  weren't criminal, just damn strange."

"Uh-huh. You're talking' about That Woman, I bet — and ol' what's his name — you know, the guy who kept sloppin' bourbon down the front of his overalls and jugglin' them five little orange seeds. I reckon this is one of those. Say, you know Cyrus Peterson, don't you?"

"The night clerk at the Blue Bird Motel, Post Office, and RV Park? Yeah, I know the guy."

"Mama came from him."

"Peterson wears an orange Mama cap?"

"Geez, Bubba, you want to pay attention here? Peterson  _found_  the cap. He brought it around yesterday morning, with a freshly-dressed wild turkey, about 24 pounds, the way I figure. Here's what I know so far. About four o'clock on the first morning of deer season, Peterson picked up a gallon of mash from Old Man Tottenham and was headin' home down Slippery Elm Lane. Now, Tottenham makes a decent sippin' whiskey, even if he uses a bit too much battery acid for my taste. You know me, Bubba," Holmes grinned. "Anything more than seven percent is habit formin'."

Holmes must have choked on his own lame joke, because he suddenly grimaced and spat tobacco juice into an empty beer can. I watched as my buddy pulled himself together and and waited for the greenish color to drain from his face before he continued.

"So. As Peterson pulled his Bronco onto the main road, he saw a tall sorta man, carryin' a burlap sack over his shoulder, passin' by the "Today's Specials" in front of the Piggly-Wiggly. When he got to the corner, a gang of skinheads started pickin' a fight with the stranger. They was a-pokin' and a-pushin' him; one of 'em knocked off the poor guy's cap, and he started swingin' that big burlap sack around like nobody's business, just tryin' to protect himself. He hit the sign that said 'Melons 2 for $2.00' and smashed it. About that time, Peterson had figured out what was goin' on and flashed 'em — with his  _lights,_  Bubba. With his  _headlights!_ Stop lookin' at me like that! Well, sir, them skinheads scattered like fleas off a dipped hound, and the stranger was so shook up that he dropped the sack, forgot all about his cap, and ran off. He got away so fast that Peterson couldn't give him back his stuff. The turkey, of course, was in the sack."

"He tracked the feller down, then, did he?"

"If he'd have done that, Bubba, we wouldn't be sittin' here talkin' about it, now would we? Go into the kitchen and get yourself a clue, and maybe another couple beers for us while you're in there."

I untangled myself from the warm spot on the settee and stuck my head into Holmes's icebox.

"There was one of them yeller sticky notes on the inside of the burlap that said, 'For Ma Baker.' I see that the initials 'H.B.' are written on the underside of the bill of the cap in black permanent ink – Sharpie Fineliner, 3 for $6.00 at Verl's Discount City."

"But for cryin' out loud, Holmes, there's hundreds of Bakers in this county alone, never mind the tourists that flock in here for a shot at a wild turkey."

"We can figure that the cap belongs to a Mr. Hank Baker, since the Baker clan don't use any H name other than Hank."

"There was that Howard Baker feller that ran for Congress back in the seventies."

"And what happened to him?"

"He ran as a Democrat, I recall. Got chased outta town by a couple dozen angry cousins with a whole lot of tar and feathers."

"There ain't been a baby named anything but 'Hank' by that family ever since. Never could live down the shame."

"So," I said as I tossed my friend a beer, "what did Peterson do?"

Holmes looked at me with disbelief. "I don't know, maybe he took some aspirin and a bath. Geez, Bubba, you gotta get them ears cleaned."

He always got a little cranky at this time of day.

"Like I told you, he brought the cap and the turkey here yesterday morning. I was gonna put the bird in the fridge, but it was a big sucker, and there was room for either the bird or my beer. Since I don't cook, I told Peterson to take it on home to his wife. Molly-Jean is one of the finest microwavers in the state. By now she's probably got it all fixed up with canned gravy and instant stuffin', and is zappin' it for all it's worth. All I have left is this cap and an annoying rash, but that a whole 'nother story."

"Anybody been askin' around about the cap or the turkey?"

"Uh-uh. Not a soul."

"Then how you gonna find the rightful owner?"

"Deduction, my dear Bubba. Deduction."

"From the Mama cap?"

"Yep."

"What else can you possibly get from that ratty lookin' thing?"

"Here's my bulldog mitt. You know how I roll. What does the cap tell you about the feller who wears it?"

As I put on the mitt and picked up the cap, the phrase "sanitized for your protection" popped into my brain. I turned the cap over. It was just a regular old orange Mama cap, stained with the sweat of a whole lot of turkey shoots. The "made in Taiwan" tag was still intact, and the initials "H.B" were written in Sharpie, just like Holmes said. It was generally dusty and well-worn, and it seemed that a lot of 10W30 had been wiped off of it at some point, probably against the upper leg of an old pair of jeans.

"Looks pretty normal to me," I said, dropping the cap on the table and handing back the bulldog mitt.

"Ah. You see, but you ain't observin'," said Holmes with a knowing little smile.

He picked up the cap and gazed at it with a look that meant he was either lost in thought or was sorry he'd had that extra helping of baked beans at dinner. "It may not have as much to say as it used to," he mumbled, "but there is still some stuff here that can't be doubted, and quite a bit more I figure to be to be pretty sure. He certainly is a smart feller. He used to be well-off within the past three years, though he's been strugglin' a bit lately. He had foresight back then, but not so much now, which means he's fallen off the wagon and spent most of his savings on moonshine. I figure that's why his wife don't love him anymore."

"Holmes! That's pretty cold. How could you possibly know that?"

"He has, of course, kept hold of some of his self-respect," he continued, ignoring me as usual. "He doesn't get out much, has the beer belly of the middle-aged good ol' boy that he is, and has just gotten his curly hair cut in the last couple of days. This is certain, based on the cap. And I can see that he probably doesn't have indoor plumbing."

"You got to be kidding, Holmes."

"I never kid about plumbing. Can't you see it yourself, now that I've given you all the answers?"

"I guess I must be dumb as limestone. I ain't got a clue how you got all that. Like, how did you figure out he's so smart?"

Holmes slapped the cap onto his head. It slid down over his forehead and ears. "It's a matter of size," he said. "A man who wears an XXL cap must have something in his head to fill it up with."

"Okay, what about his money situation?"

"This particular style and color of Mama cap was only available three years ago. When these babies went on sale down at Verl's, they went for a whoppin' $29.95. If he could afford to spend that kind of money for a cap back then, and he's been wearin' it ever since, it's clear that he used to have money, but don't have none no more."

"Well, I'll be. I'll give you that. But what about the foresight and the moonshine?"

Holmes laughed. "Here is the foresight," he said, pointing to the initials "H.B." under the bill. "Most people don't bother to put their initials on their caps, and them that does writes it in ball-point pen. But this man invested in a Sharpie – a pen too expensive for most cap-stealin' folks to bother with – to make sure that nobody could steal his cap without bein' caught. And since the sizing strap is broken and he didn't even bother to duct-tape it back together, it tells me he ain't so foresightful these days. And take a look at these here spots! Every last bit of color's been bleached right out of these spots. Moonshine that good don't just come along every day. If he's still drinkin' good mash, you know he's got enough self-respect left to look after his liver."

"Makes sense to me."

"that he's middle-aged, has curly hair and just got it cut, is easy to tell by looking at the liner. My reading specs show a fresh-cut mixture of gray and brown hairs, stuck to the cap by the Vitalis they use at the barber shop. And there's dust on it. Indoor dust, not huntin' woods dust, which means he now spends most of his time indoors. These here marks show he sweats like a pig, and therefore isn't in real good physical shape.

"But what about the fool notion that his wife don't love him no more?"

"The cap's dirty. Real dusty, you know? Now let's imagine that I were to see you, Bubba, with dust on that John Deere cap of yours. If your wife let you go out in a sorry state like that, it'd mean that she didn't care enough about you to throw the cap in the washer along with your underwear. And since I don't even want to think about the condition of your underwear, I think it'd be safe to assume that your wife was ticked off.

"He could be a bachelor, you know."

"Nah. He was bringing a turkey home to Mama, probably as a peace offering so he wouldn't have to sleep on the porch. Remember the phrase on the cap and the yeller sticky note in the burlap sack."

"You know everything, don't you, Holmes? But tell me, how do you figure there's no indoor plumbing at his place?"

With that, Holmes shoved the cap under my nose and the answer became painfully clear. "That, Bubba, is the aroma of an outhouse. A two-holer, if I'm not mistaken. Satisfied?"

"Well, that's real good," I laughed. "But if, like you said, there's been no crime committed, and nothing was lost except the cap and a turkey, it sure seems like you're spending a whole mess of time wasting time."

Hamhock Holmes opened his mouth, either to reply or to spit, when the door of the trailer flew open and Peterson, the Blue Bird's night clerk, rushed in, out of breath and with a look of shock and surprise on his face.


	2. Chapter 2

"The turkey, Mr. Holmes! The turkey!" Cyrus Peterson wheezed as the wind sucked the trailer door shut behind him with a rickety bang.

"Yeah? What about it? Has the microwave brought it back to life, and it's got your wife cornered by the instant grits?" Holmes twisted around in the LazyBoy so he could get a good look at the man's face. He always liked it when people got all excited and wheezy like that.

"Look! Look at this! Look what my wife found hidden in the giblets!" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a brilliant, shiny blue stone, about the size of a bottle cap, but with the unmistakable image of Elvis Presley twinkling like a lightning bug in the palm of his hand.

Holmes sat bolt upright. "Holy crap, Peterson! This is a real big deal, man! Do you know what this is?"

"Not really," said Peterson. "A diamond maybe. Some kind of precious stone. I bit it to see if it was real and I think I chipped a tooth."

"Not just a precious stone.  _The_  precious stone. It's the King of all precious stones!"

"It can't be!" I exclaimed. "Not Tammy Faye Whinette's Blue Garfunkel!"

Holmes and Peterson gaped at me, then took a step back.

"Geez, Bubba, calm down. It's the Garfunkel alright. I can tell by the size and color, and of course by the image of Elvis. It's been on the radio every day, and the newspaper says there's a $1,000.00 reward for its return. I'm bettin' it's worth a whole lot more than that."

"A grand! Great God almighty!" Peterson plopped down on the settee, just missing a hole in the Naugahyde and a protruding britches-ripping spring. He sat there with his eyes bugged out, just staring at us.

"That's the posted reward, and I'll bet Tammy Faye would be willing to pay a lot more to get this gem back without any embarrassing drama."

I remarked, "If I remember right, it was lost at the Blue Bird Motel."

"Yep. Less than a week ago. 'Little John' Horner, who works at the Blue Bird's RV Wash and Vacuum Service Center, was accused of taking the stone from the glove box of Tammy Faye's pink Pace Arrow. The evidence against him is so strong, that he's been locked up in the county jail ever since." Holmes put on the bulldog mitt and shuffled through a pile of newspapers. Directly, he pulled out one of the papers, smoothed it out on the coffee table, and read the article:

_"'The infamous Blue Garfunkel was stolen from country music legend Tammy Faye Whinette yesterday. It disappeared from the glove compartment of the singer's 30-foot pink Pace Arrow while it was being washed and vacuumed. 'Little John' Horner, 19, was arrested at the scene after being identified as the only possible suspect._

_Jimmy 'Red' Ryder, bellman and third-shift fry cook at the Blue Bird Diner, told officials he noticed the teenager coming out of the RV, 'looking mighty suspicious-like.' Based on the description provided by Ryder and the fact that Horner had an outstanding warrant for driving 45 miles per hour in a 35 zone, Sheriff Bradstreet acted swiftly to arrest the suspect._

_'Since he was off-duty and had gone home for supper, we had no choice but to classify Horner as a fugitive,' Bradstreet said. 'Hell, we didn't know if he had really gone home or not. All I know is it was a real serious business. They called me out in the middle of_ Bassmasters _.'_

_Horner was unavailable for comment, because he fainted dead away when told he was being arrested for the theft. The sheriff said that when asked about the missing gem, all Horner would say was, 'What the hell is a Blue Garfunkel?' and 'Why's it called a Garfunkel if it's got Elvis's face?'_

' _He was being a smart-ass,' Bradstreet continued. 'So I threw him in the slammer. That boy's gotta learn one way or t'other that I don't take no lip in my jail.'"_

"Huh. So much for 'thorough investigation'," Holmes said thoughtfully as he tossed aside the paper and the bulldog mitt. "All we gotta do now is figure out what happened between the open glove box and the turkey giblets. Bubba, it looks like our little cogitatin' game has gone from passin' time to fightin' crime! Here we got Elvis, Elvis was in the turkey, and the turkey came from Hank Baker, who just does what Mama says. Now we gotta get serious about findin' this guy and seein' what he has to do with it. The easiest way to find him is to let him know have his stuff. I reckon the first thing I'll do is put a note on the bulletin board at the Piggly-Wiggly."

"What are you gonna say?"

"Hand me a pencil and that 'You Just Won a Million Dollars' envelope, Bubba. Now then. 'Mr. Hank Baker – looks like you lost your cap and turkey in front of this store. Come by the Baker Street Bayou Trailer Park and Laundromat, Space 221B, after supper tonight, and claim them."

"That oughta do it," I nodded.

"Yeah," said Peterson. "But how you gonna make sure he sees it?"

"Well, he's already in trouble with Mama for losing his cap. The bird was probably the big surprise he'd planned to get back onto her good side, so he's got to be keeping an eye out for news about it. And where else would he look but the place where he lost it in the first place? And since I put his name on the note, anyone who knows him will tell him about it. Here, Peterson, go stick this up on the board at the store."

"What store?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Peterson. You've been hanging around Bubba too long. The Piggly-Wiggly! The one you found the stuff at! It's the only one in town, for cryin' out loud."

"Right," Peterson's cheeks pinked up a bit. "Uh… what you gonna do about the Garfunkel?"

"Don't you worry about that. I'll keep it here, safe as sardines in a can. By the way, Peterson, pick me up another turkey while you're at the store. Even if it's a self-bastin' Butterball, it's only right that we have one to give Baker to replace what you're about to eat."

After Peterson had pulled out of the trailer park, Holmes grabbed the stone and held it up to the light. "This is something, ain't it? Just look at the way Elvis sparkles. That's the reason it was stolen, you know. All good stones have something special that makes people just have to have 'em. It's the work of the devil, I tell you. The big, older ones go back centuries, and have lots of stories of murder and mayhem attached to 'em. This stone is less than forty years old, and I'll bet real money it's well on its way to a checkered past."

He handed me the stone, and something about the way Elvis was curling his lip made me want to throw it out the window. It was creepy.

"It was discovered by Eugene Garfunkel, proprietor of the Passin' Thru Convenience Store and Wedding Chapel in Las Vegas. He was heating up a Big Bean burrito in the store's microwave when, suddenly, there was a huge explosion that blew his butt all the way over to the pork rinds. When he came to, there was a five-foot crater where the microwave used to be, and when he looked in the hole, he saw the faint blue twinkle in Elvis's eyes. The strangest thing about this whole incident, the story goes, is that the burrito exploded at the exact instant the King himself passed away on the throne.

Tammy Faye picked it up at auction when Garfunkel needed to raise money to get the hole fixed in his floor. She's been claiming it's the reason for her comeback. So the question is, who would risk prison time and the curse of a pissed-off big-haired country western singer for this shiny little rock? I'll hide it in the Folger's can until it's time to let Miss Whinette know we've found Elvis."

"So, you think this Horner fella is innocent?"

"Beats me. Could be."

"Do you figure that the other guy has something to do with it?"

"Baker? Nah. I have a feeling that Hank Baker hasn't got a clue that his turkey was worth a whole bunch of Mama caps. I'll know for sure when he comes around to claim his stuff."

"So what are you gonna do in the meantime?"

"Take a nap, I suppose."

"In that case, I'll be moseying along. I got my doctorin' to do -- see if I can lance a couple of boils on the butt of humanity. If it's okay with you, though, I'll come back around this evening. I want to see for myself how this all turns out."

"Come on back in time for supper. It's two-for-one pizza night at Mrs. Hudson's Pizza Parlor and Beauty Salon. I'll ask 'em to send over a couple of double-deluxe meat-eater's specials for us. I'll get her to take a close look at the Jimmy Dean's sausage, just in case there's any more surprises hidden in food items today."


	3. Chapter 3

I was a little late getting back to the trailer park, but it turned out to be a good thing. I ran into a big man in a trench coat buttoned all the way up to his chin. He was wandering around, trying to find Space 221B. I told him to follow me.

"Mr. Hank Baker, I reckon," Holmes said, rising from the LazyBoy to greet his visitor as if he was the King himself. "Please. Sit yourself down over there by the space heater. Hey there, Bubba! Looks like you got here just in time!"

"Now then," Holmes continued, Is this your Mama cap, Mr. Baker?"

"Uh, yessir. It's mine alright. I'd just about given up any hope of ever seeing it again."

He was a large man with a rounded belly, a big ol' head, and he looked real smart. He had an I-read-the-encyclopedia-for-fun look to him, like a big-city librarian. His nose and cheeks were red, even though they'd been close to the heater more than long enough to take the chill off. His hand shook a little as he reached for the cap, which proved Holmes was right about the man's drinking habits. He spoke slow and real deliberate like, thinking about the words he was gonna use before he used 'em. He seemed to be a good man, a book-learned man, but one whose tank of good luck was runnin' on fumes.

"We've had this stuff for a couple days," Holmes said, "because we sorta figured we'd see some kind of notice from you sayin' where to send it. I can't for the life of me figure out why you didn't bother to get the word out."

The man let out a little shame-faced laugh. "I don't have the money I used to," he mumbled. "I assumed the skinheads that jumped me at the store got away with my cap and my bird. I didn't see the point of throwing good money after bad putting flyers all over town trying to get them back."

"That makes sense, I suppose. Oh, by the way, we ate the bird."

"You  _ate_  it?" Baker's eyes got real big, and he rose up out of his seat until gravity took over and pulled him back down.

"Yep. It's all we could do, since there weren't enough room in the fridge for the bird  _and_  the beer. But don't get all worked up about it. That turkey on the coffee table is about the same size and killed fresh today. It ought to do fine, don't you think?"

"Whew. Yes, that there bird'll do mighty fine," Baker said with a sigh of relief.

"Of course, we did save the giblets from your own bird, if you still want 'em."

"Giblets?" The man busted out laughin'. "I don't really care for giblets, although I wouldn't mind stuffing them down the throats of those skinheads that caused all this trouble in the first place. No, thanks. If it's all the same to you, I'll be mighty happy just to have that fine turkey on the table over there."

Holmes looked my way and shrugged.

"Here you go, then. The hat and the bird are yours," he said. "By the way, where did you find that first-class turkey? I'm a bit of a fowl man myself, and wouldn't mind huntin' the woods where you bagged that one."

"Well, sir," Baker said as he stood up, put the Mama cap on his head and cradled the new gobbler in his arms like it was a blue ribbon bird dog. "There's a few of us who hang out at Windigate's Bar and Gun Club, down by the swamp. This year, Old Man Windigate started up a Wild Turkey Club. It only cost a few dollars a week, and included an occasional taste of the other Wild Turkey, if you know what I mean. Club members were promised a fresh bird for Thanksgiving. I paid my dues, drank my whiskey, and the rest you know already. Thank you kindly, Mr. Holmes, for gettin' me out of the doghouse with Mama."

With a tip of his cap, he tripped on a worn spot in the rug, stumbled out the front door, and walked away with his pride and his peace offering for Mama.

"So much for Hank Baker," Holmes said as he closed the door. "He don't know squat about the Garfunkel. You hungry, Bubba?"

"Not really."

"Then let's pass on the pizza for now and check out this clue while the swamp water is hot."


	4. Chapter 4

It was colder'n a well-diggers shovel in the Klondike, so we put on our battery powered socks and turned them puppies all the way up to "extra toasty." Outside, the stars were shining like sequins on a showgirl, and the breath of folks passing by looked as thick as it smelled. My old Buick creaked and backfired like Grandpa at the dinner table. After a spell, we got to the swamp and pulled into the gravel parking lot of Windigate's Bar and Gun Club. Holmes stepped up to the bar and ordered a couple of longnecks from a tired-eyed, white-haired bartender.

"If your beer is as good as your wild turkey, I'll take a case to go," he said.

"Wild turkey?" The old guy seemed confused.

"The birds, man, the birds. I was gabbin' with Hank Baker about a half hour ago. He told me he was part of your wild turkey club."

"Oh, yeah. Gotcha now. Old Hank's about two fingers short of a full shot, if you get my meaning. He got his turkey here, but they ain't turkeys from the gun club. He knows that."

"Oh? So where'd they come from? Not the Piggly-Wiggly, I hope."

"I got a couple dozen of them from a game bird salesman down at Azalea's Farmer's Market and Garden Supply. On the other side of the swamp."

"Yeah? I used to hang out with some folks from over there. What's the guy's name?"

"Willy Bob. Willy Bob Breckinridge. Nice feller, but wears too much Aqua Velva."

"Ah. I don't know him. Anyway, here's to you, barkeep. Thank you kindly for the beer and conversation."

"Let's go find Willy Bob, Bubba." Holmes continued as we headed back toward the Buick. "Remember now, even though we might be huntin' wild turkey, there's also a good kid who stands to be locked up for seven to ten years for doin' nothin' more than bein' in the wrong place at the wrong time, unless we can find out who the real crook is. I got this feelin' the sheriff screwed up again, and we're about to show the world how stupid he is. I love it when that happens."

We drove the Buick down through hunting camps and chicken farms until we got to Azalea's Farmer's Market and Garden Supply. The aroma of Aqua Velva drew us to a large space at the south end of the market, and there we found Willy Bob Breckinridge, a glassy-eyed man who was busy watching a teenage boy pack up an old Ford.

"Howdy," said Holmes. "Cold night."

Willy Bob continued without even looking up at my friend.

"No more wild turkeys left, I see," Holmes continued, pointing to the empty wooden crates.

"It's comin' up on Thanksgiving. They're selling out quick. Come back tomorrow. I'll have more than you can chase around a Peterbilt."

"Nope. Can't wait."

"Then go on down to Bucky's stall. The one over yonder with the Coleman lamp."

"Nah. I was told to ask for you."

"By who?"

"Windigate. At t'other end of the swamp."

"Oh, yeah. Nice feller. I sent him a couple dozen not long ago."

"Yep. Mighty fine eatin' birds, too. Where'd you get 'em?"

The question seemed to flip a switch inside of ol' Willy Bob. You don't normally see a turkey salesman get all worked up like that – especially to a potential customer with money to burn.

"What the hell do you want, man?" Willy Bob puffed himself up like a banty rooster in a roomful of cats. "Don't make me have to come over there."

"I don't believe I mumbled at all. I just want to know where you bought them turkeys you sold to Windigate."

"Well, all's I have to say is to hell with you and your questions! And your little friend with his hands in his pockets, too!"

"It don't make no difference to me, but I'd sure like to know why you got such a burr under your saddle."

"Everybody and his dog's dead grandmother has been buggin' me about them birds. I bought 'em, and I sold 'em, and that's all there oughta be to it. But No! It's 'Where'd you get them turkeys?' and 'Where'd them turkeys go?' and 'You better tell me what happened to them wild turkeys!' The way folks is carryin' on, you'd think I had the last damn turkeys on the face of the Earth!

"Well, sir, I don't know about them other folks, said Holmes like it just didn't make no nevermind. "But the bet's off, that's all. I bet my buddy here five bucks that the bird we ate come from Arkansas. And I know my turkeys."

"Then you just lost five bucks, gizzard lips, because it came from this very county," snapped the salesman.

"It ain't possible."

"It sure as hell is."

"You're lyin' like butter on grits."

"What the hell's wrong with you? I been around turkeys since my daddy had hair. I'm tellin' you them birds that went to Windigate's Bar and Gun Club came from just up that road yonder." He pointed to a rutted, muddy path.

"Ain't no way I'm gonna believe that."

"Well, why don't you bet  _me_ then?"

"I'd just be takin' your money, friend, since I know I'm right about this. But okay. I'll bet you five bucks, too, just to teach you not to be such a hard-ass."

The salesman shook his head and chuckled. "Bring me that clipboard, Junior," he said.

The boy handed over a letter-sized clipboard that held a couple of legal-sized yellow pads, covered with smudges of grease. Willy Bob shuffled through the pages under the glow of the Ford's headlights.

"Now then, Mr. I-Know-My-Birds," he said, "Until you walked in my stall, I was plumb out of turkeys, but by the time I'm done, we'll see that there's still one left. You see here?" He pointed to one of the pages.

"Yeah. So?"

"This is the list of folks I buy my turkeys from. See that there? That says who I get my birds from in Arkansas, and that stuff next to their names tells me what their account numbers is. Now then! Look at this next page. It says at the top, 'Local Suppliers.' How's about readin' that third name out for me? If you can read, that is."

"Mrs. Buckshott, Route 1, Brixton Bayou, Box 23." Holmes read.

"Yep. Now just you shuffle on through that yellow pad until you find Mrs. Buckshott's account page."

Holmes thumbed through the pages and read, "Mrs. Maybell Buckshott, Brixton Bayou, Turkeys-R-Us."

"And what's that written down there at the bottom? Hmm?"

"November 20, twenty-four extra-big wild turkeys at $10.00."

"There ya go. And what next?"

"Um…'sold to Windigate Bar and Gun Club at $15.95.'"

"So, Mister Turkey Man. Ready to eat some crow?"

Hamhock Holmes sighed. He pulled a five-dollar bill out of his back pocket, threw it down on the clipboard, kicked at the gravel with the toe of his boot, and walked away like a man who's just lost a bet. When we got back to the Buick, he laughed until I thought he was gonna bust.

"He was right! There  _is_  a turkey left in his shop. What an idiot! Shoot, if I'd have bet him ten bucks, he'd probably have shown me baby pictures of them turkeys," he chuckled. "Well, Bubba, looks like we got this one just about licked. All we gotta figure out is whether to go visit Mrs. Buckshott tonight or wait till morning. It sounds like there's other folks who want to know about those birds, and I reckon…"

He was cut short by the sound of an old Dodge screeching to a halt in front of the market. We looked up just in time to see a little weasel-faced feller climb out of the truck. Breckenridge stormed out of his shop, waving a shotgun and explainin' the facts of life to the guy.

"I've just about had it with them damn wild turkeys," he shouted. "You get your sorry butt the hell outta here, or I swear I'll let this here shotgun give it a push! I'll talk to Mrs. Buckshott if you want, but I ain't about to waste no more time with you. What the hell do you care, anyways? I didn't buy them turkeys from you."

"Maybe not, but one of them turkeys was mine, I tell ya," the little feller was whining.

"Then go get it from Mrs. Buckshott!"

"She said you got it. And it was mine!"

"Well, go tell it to Dr. Phil, 'cause I'm dead flat sick of this! Get on outta here, y'hear?" He rushed toward the little man, who quickly hopped back into his truck and locked the door.

"Hot damn, we are livin' right tonight," whispered Holmes. "Come on! Let's make this little guy one of them offers you can't refuse!"

Before I knew it, Holmes was knockin' on the window of the Dodge.

"What! What do you want?" The guy was shakin' like a Chihuahua in a snowstorm.

"Sorry about that," Holmes said, like he just happened to be hanging out in front of a farmer's market, just for fun. "I heard what you was asking that salesman just now, and I think I can help you."

"You? And just who are you, Mr. I-Can-Help-You?"

"They call me Hamhock Holmes. I'm a nosy sumbitch who knows a whole lot of stuff that other folks don't." 

"There ain't no way you know anything about this here situation! Go away!" The little feller tried his best to disappear under the steering wheel.

"Oh, but maybe I do," said Holmes. "You're trying to find a wild turkey, sold by Mrs. Maybell Buckshott of Brixton Bayou to your buddy Breckenridge over there. He turned around and sold it to the Windigate Bar and Gun Club, who then handed it off to a feller called Hank Baker."

It's always fun to watch little whiney men get all shook up when Holmes starts explainin' things. The stranger climbed slowly out of the old Dodge, and stood there, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. "How the hell do you know that? You don't know how bad I need to find that turkey!"

"Well, then. I reckon we need to go on back to my office and discuss this over a cold beer, like civilized folk do," he said. "What's your name?"

"Um…" stammered the little man, "My name is Johnny Robertson." He looked down at his feet.

"No, no, your real name," Holmes said, all sweet and innocent-like. "I won't talk turkey to a man with a made-up name."

The man blushed brighter than a 60-watt bulb. "Oh… in that case, everyone calls me 'Red.' Jimmy 'Red' Ryder."

"Of course! Bellman and third-shift fry cook down at the Blue Bird. Here's my address. Follow our Buick and we'll get this all sorted out in no time."

The little goober followed close behind us for the half-hour drive back to the trailer park. His truck shook as bad as he did, and a couple of times we thought he was gonna chicken out and swerve off into the swamp. When we arrived at Space 221B, Ryder all but fell out of the Dodge, shaking even harder than before.

"Come on in," Holmes sorta sang, real cheerful like, as we stepped into the living room. "You look damn cold, Ryder. Have a seat over there by the space heater while Bubba gets us a couple of beers."

I cracked open the cans and plopped myself down on the settee to watch the show.

"So," said Holmes, taking a long, deliberate sip of his beer. "You want to know about them turkeys?"

"Uh-huh."

"Or, more likely, just one wild turkey. A big ol' fat one with an extra toe."

Ryder started shakin' again, and downed his beer in one shuddering gulp. "Lord have mercy!" he cried, "do you know what happened to it?"

"It came here."

"H-here?"

"Yep, and it was the strangest thing. I ain't a bit surprised that you liked that particular bird. After all, it had somethin' extra in its giblets. The brightest, sparkliest, most amazin' little blue giblet that you'll ever want to see. I have it here in my giblet museum."

Our visitor staggered to his feet as Holmes dug around in the Folger's can for the Blue Garfunkel. He held up the stone, which sparkled like nobody's business and smelled like decaf, too. Ryder just stood there, his face all scrunched up in pain, not knowin' whether to grab it and run, or ask us why we called it Garfunkel when it looked like Elvis.

"We got you dead to rights, Ryder," Holmes whispered. He could be a real melodramatic pain in the butt sometimes. Ryder backed into the corner like a scared rabbit, nearly knocking over the space heater. "Geez, be careful, you shiverin' sack of tapioca. You wouldn't last five minutes in the county jail. Help the little weenie back to his seat, Bubba, and get him another beer."

Ryder had just about passed out, but the beer steadied him. He sat like a Toyota at fast idle, staring at Holmes.

"I got most of the details sorted out, certainly enough to throw your sorry butt in jail for as long as you'll be able to remember. You knew all about Tammy Faye's little blue beauty here, didn't you, Ryder?"

"It was Katie Kurriak who told me about it," he whimpered, almost in tears.

"I see! Tammy Faye's backup singer and accordion player! Looking for her own career-launchin' opportunity, was she? And using you to get there. It's a sad old story, Ryder, that's turned you into a cold-blooded thief. You knew that poor Horner had a record and it would be real easy to pin all this on him. So what'd you do? Offer to put some of those little fancy soaps in the bathroom of the pink Pace Arrow? And then tell Horner that the RV needed to be vacuumed, so you could have him arrested? And then —"

Ryder dropped to his knees and started crying like a baby with a load in its diaper. "For God's sake, Mr. Holmes! Don't say nothin'!" Man, he was wailin' and carryin' on somethin' awful. It was embarrassing. "It'd break my mama's heart! I won't never do nothin' wrong, never again! Oh, puh-leeeeeeeze don't call the cops! For the love of Christ, don't!"

"Geez, man, get off the floor and back into the chair! Sure, you beg and whine now that you're caught, but you didn't think twice about it when that poor kid was locked up for somethin' he didn't know anything about."

"I'll leave the county, Mr. Holmes! I will, I swear! You've got the stone. There won't be anything against Horner and they'll have to let him go."

"We'll think on that. But for now, why don't you come clean and tell us the rest of what happened. How did the stone end up in the the turkey giblets, and how did the turkey end up in Mr. Baker's hands? Don't lie, unless you want to be a bird yourself — a jailbird."

Ryder was shakin' so hard the TV changed channels. "I'll tell you the whole story, just the way it happened," he sniveled. "When Horner was arrested, I figured I'd get the Garfunkel outta town right away, since I didn't know what the sheriff was likely to do next, having missed Bassmasters and all. He might even start thinkin' I was involved and wanna search my stuff and all. I figured nobody would thank anything of me going to visit Maybell Buckshott, my sister who lives out on Brixton Bayou. she's in the turkey business, raisin' up gobblers just like they was wild.

"On the way out there I just knew I was gonna get pulled over for some damn thing or another, and they'd find Elvis in my pocket. By the time I got to Maybell's place, sweat was pourin' off my face. She asked what was wrong, any why was I so sickly lookin'. I told her that I was shaken up by the robbery at the Blue Bird, but I'd be okay. I went out back to visit the outhouse and think about what I was gonna do.

"While I stood there, worryin' and wonderin', one of the butt-ugliest turkeys I'd ever seen wandered up and gobbled at me. It was like he was sayin' 'well, get on with it or this story won't ever get over.' And suddenly I got the idea in my head. I knew exactly what to do with the stone to keep myself outta jail.

"My sister had promised me a turkey in time for Thanksgiving dinner, and told me to pick out the one I wanted. I figured I go ahead and take it now, and let the bird carry the Garfunkel for me. So, I chased the birds around behind the grain shed; I picked out a big, broad-breasted one that had an extra toe. Once I caught it, I opened its beak and shoved the Garfunkel down its gullet as far as my fingers could reach. The bird had no choice but to swallow, and I felt Elvis move on down its throat. But the damned thing pecked the crap outta my hand and got away. My sister came out to see what the commotion was all about, and the bird ran off with the others.

"She looked at me kinda strange. 'What on earth was you doin' to that poor bird, Red?' she asked.

"I says, 'You told me I could have one for Thanksgiving, and I was just checkin' 'em out.'

"She says, 'By stickin' your finger in its mouth? What was you doin', checkin' for stuffing?'

"I says, 'Give me a break, willya? You know I'm particular about my birds.'

"She says, 'Yeah, whatever. Which one ya want?'

"I says, 'I want that big one in the middle. The one with the extra toe.'

"She says, 'Fine by me. Kill it and take it on home with you.'

"So I did. When I got it home, I plucked it and dressed it out, and just about fainted dead away. There was all kinds of stuff inside that bird, but no Blue Garfunkel. I couldn't find the stone anywhere, and I knew right away that something had gone bad wrong. I drove straight back to my sister's place and ran to the back yard. All the turkeys were gone!

"I says, 'Where's the birds, Maybell?'

"She says, 'Gone, Red.'

"I says, 'Where?'

"She says, "Breckenridge. Over to the Farmer's Market.'

"I says, 'Oh.' Then I says, "Did you have another one with an extra toe? Like the one I took with me?'

"'As a matter of fact, I did,' she tells me. 'They was like twins. Never could tell 'em apart.'

"Of course, by then I knew my goose was cooked, so to speak, and I drove off to the Farmer's Market as fast as the old Dodge would go. But, my luck runnin' true to form, I found out that Breckenridge had done sold the turkeys right away, and he wouldn't tell me where they were. So now my sister thinks I'm nuts — maybe I am, at that, and I'm gonna go to jail for stealing a jewel that I couldn't even hold on to long enough to cash in. God, I'm such a loser!"

He started bawlin' again. What a loser.

It was quiet for a spell, except for Ryder's whimperin' and the tapping of Holmes's fingers on the wall. Finally, my buddy stood up and threw open the front door.

"Get out," he said.

"What? Really?"

"Shut up and get goin'!"

Nothing else needed to be said. Ryder was up and out the door like a shot. The old Dodge fired to life and all we heard was the sound of screechin' tires fading into the distance.

"Don't look at me like that, Bubba," said Holmes, reaching into the Tony Lama for his pouch of Redman. "I don't work for the sheriff and it ain't my job to keep him from lookin' like a dumbass. Now, if Horner was gonna be convicted of something, that'd be different. But since Ryder there won't be around to testify against him there won't be a case at all. So the way I figure, I'm lettin' a felon go, or I'm lettin' a feller save his soul. That little whiner won't ever do anything wrong again. Hell, he won't even cheat on his taxes. Send him to jail, and he'll be be a criminal for life. Besides, it's huntin' season. Time to take aim at what's really important, you know? We've had some fun with a weird little riddle, and solvin' it is a good enough reward for me.

"Now, if you'll hand me the phone, Bubba, we can start work on another little mystery. What say we try to figure out the mystery of what's in Mrs. Hudson's Meat-Eater's Special. And you can be certain, it's gonna be 'fowl.'"

 


End file.
